by Drake, Laura
At his nod, the men swung the gate. The black bull swiveled its massive head, and realizing it was free, lunged out of the chute. Buster thrust one hand in the air and hung on as the bull turned into a spin, lunging and bucking.
The crowd yelled encouragement; the cowboys on the back of the chute screamed instructions. Tom didn’t yell, but leapt to his feet, leaning this way and that, as if trying to help his son balance. Maydelle sat frozen in her seat, a look of hopeful anguish on her face.
Head down, the kid shifted his feet and hips to stay in the middle of the tornado.
A buzzer sounded. Buster reached down and grabbed the end of the rope and pulled it free of his hand. The bullfighters stepped in close to the spinning animal. One tapped it between the horns, another grabbed at the tail.
Katya held breath in her seized lungs, her muscles locked tight. The bull kicked, and Buster was thrown over the bull’s head. He landed on his feet, but the bull brought its head around and the horn hit the cowboy’s forearm before he was off, running for the fence.
The bull quit bucking and the bullfighters backed away. The animal looked around with distain, then sauntered out of the open gate.
Buster whipped off the helmet with one hand, and threw it in the air. He leapt on the fence in front of Katya, so close she could see every one of his hundreds of freckles, and his orange-red hair. He hooted, and pumped a fist in the air, holding the other hand against his thigh. Tom and Maydelle rushed past Katya and down the one step to their son. Maydelle hugged him close and Tom slapped his back.
The announcer’s voice drowned out the cheering crowd. “Well, folks, welcome Buster Deacon to the big leagues. How about… eighty-six and a half points!”
His parents let Buster go and he dropped back into the arena, cradling his injured forearm in his other hand. The bullfighters pounded his back and smacked him on the head as the crowd stood cheering.
Tom and Maydelle slid past her to their seats.
“What about his arm?”
Tom said, “Oh, he’s fine. It’s not his riding arm.”
Maydelle genuflected, her lips moving in silent prayer.
Couldn’t the kid have taken up a tamer sport, like rugby?
An hour and many rides later, Katya looked down to see a fine tremor in her hands. She clasped them between her knees in an effort to make them stop. One ride to go.
No one says you have to stay for it.
The drama and emotions of the day were getting to her. All she wanted now was a hot bath and bed. Or maybe just a bed. She stood and said good-bye to the Deacons.
Butterflies brushed the lining of her stomach. She tightened her muscles to squelch them and marched the arena steps to go win that job.
CHAPTER
4
You’ll get ’em tomorrow, Cam.” Pete, one of the bullfighters, offered Cam his rope and a commiserating pat on the back.
“Yeah, I let that one get away from me.” He limped from the arena to a parting-gift smattering of applause. The TV camera followed him, recording every painful step. He ducked under the catwalk to retrieve his dress hat and ditch the documentary.
Damn sneaky bull. He’d started the ride in perfect shape. He’d stayed up on his rope for El Patron’s signature droppy leap from the gate. He’d even made the first sharp corner and settled into spurring on the spin—big money chops to impress the judges. But the danged bull switched leads and turned the other way, leaving him behind, sliding him off his rope before slinging him face-first in the dirt at seven and a half seconds.
He leaned over in the shadows and collected himself, massaging his sore knee. Hell, who was he trying to kid? Two years ago that bull could’ve turned itself inside out and wouldn’t have had a shot at bucking him off.
Face it. Your reflexes are going. Thirty-two may not be considered old in most sports, but in the PBR, it was ancient. The last rider closest to Cam’s age retired last year. Getting in shape for this season had about killed him, and his knee was keeping him up nights. Doc Cody was bugging to let him repair Cam’s rotator cuff, but what would normally be a two-month layoff would be the end of Cam’s career, and he knew it.
That’s why he’d gone to Dallas. In December, the weekend he’d spent at the for-sale ranch of a retiring stock contractor had been a welcome vacation. But a full week of trailing cattle and training young bulls was…
Boring.
He wanted to be on bulls, not trailing them. After years of competing, he’d be trailering stock to the events. Instead of riding, he’d be flanking the bull. Left in the chute watching, while a young kid did what Cam was dying to do.
He spanked the dust from his chaps, and taking care not to twist his knee, picked up his hat, slapped it on his head, and walked from under the metal catwalk. The cameraman was gone, moved on to a more successful ride. Cam put his head down and walked the tunnel that led to a hot shower and ice for his sore parts.
Damn, he really wanted to stay on with the PBR after retiring. This was home. He didn’t know much else. But he didn’t have the voice or the personality for color commentary, and marketing was something he did when he ran out of groceries.
What the hell are you going to do?
He really thought that ranch would be the ticket. Now he was back where he started, and the clock was ticking, counting down the days to the end of his career.
“Shit!” He hurled his bull rope as hard as he could down the hallway. A bolt of agony shot through his shoulder. The dented cowbell clanked as it hit, then skittered away. “Goddamn, sonofaBITCH!” He squatted, clutching his shoulder, gritting his teeth.
Click. Click. Click.
The tapping of high heels penetrated his fog of pissed and pain.
“Well. Excuse me.” A woman’s stick-up-the-butt tone came from behind him. A slim pair of ankles in stylish heels walked within a foot of his face. He turned his head to watch her walk past—a heart-shaped butt in a tight skirt, swiveling in a precision march, dismissal clear in the ramrod line of her back and the set of her shoulders.
“Pardon me, ma’am.”
She shot a haughty glare over her shoulder, looking down her nose at him. He caught a quick glimpse of glossy black hair pulling loose from a schoolmarm’s bun, smooth olive skin, and huge eyes the vivid green of moss in a windmill tank, before she snapped her face forward and motored on.
His knee barely protested when he stood. Nothing like a good-looking woman to grease a man’s moving parts.
Katya’s heels echoed as she entered the white tiled hallway. The long, emotional day left her wilted, feeling as if she’d worn this suit for days. And she still had to nail this job. She rolled her shoulders. This next hour would be the crossroads of her future.
Buck up, soldier. She straightened her spine, tightened her core muscles, and marched.
She turned the corner of the white tiled hallway. Her step faltered. A cowboy strode ahead of her, head down, spurs jingling. What Maydelle had called chaps hugged his slightly bowed legs, fringes bouncing. She hadn’t seen a cowboy from the back before. Wide bands of smooth leather curved from between his thighs to cup his butt, creating a frame for a perfect picture. Not that the jeans were tight. They were a working man’s jeans, used and dusty. Which made them all the sexier.
Wowzer.
He held the vest the riders wore in one hand and a rope in the other, a bell on the end dragging behind. The bright red Western shirt he wore tightly tucked at his small waist widened to broad shoulders, his blond hair was cut short beneath the dark brown hat.
Nice. A muscle under her ribs fluttered. Walking behind men in those chaps would be a sweet perk of this job.
He hurled the rope in a sudden vicious burst. The bell clanged and echoed as it hit the wall.
“Shit!” The cowboy squatted, clutching his shoulder and swearing like a drill sergeant.
She almost stopped, to see if she could help. When he rolled his shoulder, she knew he hadn’t dislocated it.
Dr. Cody
was waiting. If she didn’t nail this job, she’d never be able to help anyone.
He swore viciously.
“Well. Excuse me.”
Figures. No matter how studly they may look, star athletes were at heart tantrum-throwing toddlers. She had two years of locker room stories to prove it. New sport, same infantile behavior.
“Pardon me, ma’am.”
He sounded sincere, but she glanced back, just to be sure.
God save the world from baby-faced men. Washed, blue-sky eyes with sun-squint lines at their corners, a strong jaw, and full lips. Lips, that as she watched, quirked as his eyes took a long, slow trip up her legs.
She faced forward so fast her neck popped. Why do the good-looking ones just have to be assholes?
She stopped at the training room, took a deep breath, and pulled open Door Number Two.
Riders in various states of undress lay on upholstered tables, or sat in chairs, talking while waiting their turn. A short, pudgy medic in a Western hat moved between them like a ponderous bee.
Leaning over a reclined cowboy, Doc Cody squinted in the glare of a spot lamp, suturing the kid’s chin. He glanced at her over his cheater glasses, then back. “Well, Ms. Smith, what did you think of the toughest sport on dirt?” He tied off a stitch and cut the thread.
“It was…” She realized the cowboys watched her closely, as they had since she stepped in. She searched for a politically correct, yet accurate answer. “Overwhelming.”
Doc Cody chuckled. “Hey, Dusty!”
The flushed, round-faced medic looked up from the ankle he was wrapping. “Yeah, Doc?”
“Grab me another couple packets of 9-0 sutures from the bag in the truck, will you? Keys are in the office.”
The tech ran his hand over the pressure bandage. “You bet, boss.” He hustled out of the room.
Doc Cody skewered the kid’s chin again with the curved needle. “We’re kind of swamped at the moment. Would you mind helping out? I’ll be done here in just a few.”
“S-s-sure.” Quite aware that this was a test, Katya pushed down the butterflies and crossed to a sink in the corner to wash her hands. What if she froze again? She remembered the last time. The shame of her meltdown, when she tried to resume her duties in the ER in Kandahar. She winced as the brush bit into the cuticle, and lightened up a bit. No reason to think that would happen. After all, this wasn’t like dealing with war wounds. She’d be working on a bunch of overpaid camera hogs. She dried her shaking hands, girded her loins, and got to work.
After an hour of probing, kneading, and stretching muscles, her hands had fallen into remembered rhythm. Champagne bubbles of happiness rose into her throat. God, it felt good to work again. She needn’t have worried that cowboys wouldn’t respect a woman in the locker room. She hadn’t been ma’am’d this much in the army. And here, Katya held no rank.
She’d stopped looking at faces, focusing instead on injured body parts in an attempt to triage the worst injuries first.
She’d settled a kid in shorts in the whirlpool tub to treat a strained calf muscle, and turned to see a flash of red hair, Adam’s apple, and lots of teeth. Buster Deacon sat next in line, forearm cradled in his lap, a huge grin covering most of his face.
The cowboy beside him teased, “Tomorrow night we’ll get you a bull you don’t have to put a quarter in, kid.”
When she patted the table in front of her, Buster stood and crossed the room to her. “Doc says it’s just a bone bruise.”
She eyed the deep purple lump. Ouch. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a cool pack. “That was some ride.”
“You saw it?” he asked in a shy, tell-me voice.
“I was sitting beside your parents. They’re awfully proud of you.” She molded the pack to the freckled muscular forearm then wrapped an elastic bandage around it to hold it in place. “I thought your dad’s buttons were going to pop.”
Red spread up Buster’s spindly neck to his face. He ducked his head. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
Smiling, she turned to her next patient.
Oh.
She felt like she’d bumped her forehead into an invisible wall. A naked chest filled her vision. No, not just any chest. A perfect chest.
Six-pack abs, bracketed by ribs and impressive lats. The pecs and deltoids were so pronounced there was a valley between them. Prominent veins snaked down to bulging forearms.
Trace needs a photo of this for his next Hunk of the Month.
No hair marred the smooth skin or covered brown, pebbled nipples.
Whew. Her fingers flexed. She’d love to massage those muscles. Her blood rushed to her crotch and her face, leaving the rest of her body dry. Then she’d let him massage some of hers.
Oh, very professional. You’re working, Katya! In all her years in locker rooms, she’d never forgotten that before. She looked up to the baby face and washed blue eyes of the hissy-fit cowboy she’d seen in the hall.
His lips quirked. Again.
She spun to the refrigerator, hoping to find aplomb nestled in with the ice packs. She turned, a bag of ice in one hand, the other on her hip. “You need ice for your head, right?”
His lips fell into a grim line. “No. My shoulder.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right.” She placed the pack on his shoulder, molding it to the curve of muscle.
Doc Cody’s voice came from behind her. “Cam, are you ready to let me take care of that tear yet?”
“Nope. You can put me back together at the end of the season, Doc. I’m going for the volume discount.”
The Doctor snorted. “Let’s just hope there’s enough left by then to work with.” Fingers tapped her shoulder. “Let’s finish our conversation from earlier, Miss Smith.”
“Please. Call me Katya.” Turning to follow him out of the room, she could’ve sworn she heard a snicker behind her.
Back in the tiny office, Doc Cody plopped into the chair, pulled off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We’re a man short, as you can see. Thank you for your help today.”
“I haven’t worked since I got out of the army. It felt great.”
“We need someone soon, no doubt about it.” His direct gaze trapped hers. “But make no mistake. The PBR is a family, and it’s my job to see that these men get superlative care.”
“I understand, sir.” She sat at parade rest and forced her hands to still in her lap. You don’t have to say a thing about it.
He just watched her. She knew he was reviewing everything he’d seen her do in the treatment room. Judging.
She tried not to fidget, biting the inside of her lip to keep the words in.
It didn’t work. “In the spirit of full disclosure, sir, I have to tell you.” Her throat clicked when she swallowed. “In Kandahar, there was a bomb. I was close. I was injured.”
He frowned. Out of sympathy, or concern for her ability, she had no way of knowing. All she could do was spit out the rest. “I have healed physically, but I have some residual… PTSD, I guess you’d call it.”
She remembered the medics, rushing into the arena to help a downed rider, and imagined herself doing it. An acid gut-bomb exploded in her stomach. “I’m working through it. However, in the short term, I’m not going to be of much help in the arena.” She shut up, and waited for his verdict, jaw set, chest tight, hoping she hadn’t just blown her last chance.
Still, it wouldn’t have felt right, not telling him.
His gaze sharpened. “Everyone has to take a turn manning a stretcher when needed.”
Well, you’ve done your best. She’d go ho—back to her parents’ house. The taste of disappointment was as bitter at the back of her throat. Holding her shoulders back seemed a monumental effort.
If she couldn’t even get a job like this, how would she ever heal enough to get back to the army?
When Doc Cody cleared his throat she realized he’d been studying her the whole time. “Thank you, for your service to our country.”
Sh
e nodded, once, more a spasm than acknowledgment. And as a lovely parting gift, we won’t charge you for your seat at the event today. Thanks for—
“I’m torn.” He scrubbed his palm over his face. The sandpaper sound of his beard shadow rasped in the silence. “I believe in hiring vets, and the PBR is a huge supporter of our troops. Hell, the army was one of our sponsors in the past.” He tapped his fingers on her résumé. “And you’re a good candidate. The best of the ten I’ve interviewed. But I cannot put the safety of these men in the hands of someone who would fail them.”
“I can do the job, sir.” At least she thought she could. “All I’d ask for is just a bit of leeway—to not deal with emergent trauma in the arena—at least in the beginning.” She held his gaze, but the effort cost her. “I promise, sir. You wouldn’t be sorry if you hired me.”
He lifted the first page of her résumé and scanned the second. “I guess we could leave you out of the rotation, at least in the beginning.”
I’d have to be hired to be in the rotation. A smile started in her brain, and shot to her lips. It’s a start. The beginning of a journey out of the dark maze she’d woken to, that day in Kandahar.
“But.” The qualifier dropped between them like a live grenade. “If I see any evidence that you can’t handle this—you show any hesitation in a crisis—you’re out. No discussion.” Doc Cody dropped his forearms on the desk and leaned forward. “Understood?”
She closed her eyes, put down her doubts, and gathered what meager courage she had left. “Yes, sir.”
He extended a hand. “Providing your references check out, I’ll offer you the job, Ms. Smith.”
Her chest deflated with the released breath she hadn’t known she held. She smiled. “I’d like very much to take it, Doctor. If you’ll call me Katya.” She ran her damp hand down her skirt then shook on it. “If I could ask just one more favor?”
“What is it?” He stood.
“I’d appreciate it if my military service could stay between you and me.” She felt the blood pool in her hanging fingertips, and the nail beds on her right hand throbbed. “I’d rather not answer questions about it just yet.”